


Never Be a Day

by one_go_alone



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Frodo/Sam - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Music, Phantom of the Opera - Freeform, Theater - Freeform, Thorin/Frodo, bagginshield, opera - Freeform, phantom AU, sorry about that, sort of, this is probably weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:25:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6063777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_go_alone/pseuds/one_go_alone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a great deal more to Frodo's ever-unseen vocal tutor than he realized...and how does Bilbo know so much about the Opera Ghost, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So...Bagginshield is one of those ships where I can't listen to any music ever, apparently, because this is what happens. >.>
> 
> In my head, I envision this as visuals from the movie with vocals from the Broadway play.

Bilbo wasn’t quite sure what to do when he opened the door to his room and abruptly found his arms full of a shivering young hobbit.

“Frodo!” he exclaimed. “What is it, lad? You should be in the dormitory sleeping.” 

“’m sorry,” Frodo mumbled, still shivering. “I was scared.”

Bilbo sighed, torn between sympathy and frustration. He had only known the boy a few weeks, somehow being the only living relative who could really provide for him, even if that just meant a place in the children’s chorus here at the Opera House in Dale.

Of course, his own uncertainty was hardly anything compared to what Frodo must be feeling, with the loss of his parents still so recent. Sympathy won out over frustration, and Bilbo drew Frodo inside his rooms, closing the door behind him.

“All right, lad. Tell me what has you so frightened, and we’ll get you settled.” Frodo would need to learn to sleep in the dormitory soon, but a night or two here until the grief and strangeness of a new place were not quite so close wouldn’t hurt anything.

“It was- It was the other children. They keep-” Frodo swallowed, following Bilbo to his bed, his voice dropping to a whisper. “They keep talking about the- the Opera Ghost.” 

Bilbo’s heart tightened uncomfortably as it always did when that particular title was bandied about. He shoved the feeling aside, and focused on the young hobbit now curling up under the blankets.

“I see,” he said, proud that his voice stayed calm and level. “Well.”

He paused. He really shouldn’t...shouldn’t say anything at all. But the lad was going to hear stories, and maybe it would be easier for him to not be frightened if some were not told with the intent of scaring him half to death.

“How about I tell you some other stories that I know about the Opera Ghost?” the older hobbit offered, his voice still even. “I know a few that aren’t quite so scary.”

“Really?” Frodo sniffed, wide blue eyes peering up at him through the candlelight.

“Really,” Bilbo promised, seating himself comfortably at the edge of the bed. “But you must promise not to tell these stories to anyone else. They’ll be just for us, all right?” The little boy nodded solemnly. “Did you know that the Opera Ghost is an architect? He has built many amazing halls down below...”

\--

“Bilbo?” Frodo asked one evening a year later as they stood in the small memorial room lighting a candle for his parents. “People used to say that a good Spirit must have smiled on our family, what with Papa playing the violin, and Mama and me singing.”

Bilbo smiled fondly. “Your parents were very gifted, weren’t they? And you have a fine voice yourself, my lad. Just keep working hard at training it.”

“I will!” the boy promised eagerly. “Is it okay, then, that the Spirit came and is teaching me?”

The older hobbit paused, frowning. “Spirit? What spirit, lad?”

“He said he was the Spirit of Music! He talks to me when I come here by myself, sometimes, and the other day he said that he would teach me to sing better. The exercises were difficult, but then chorus practice seemed a little easier this week, so I think that maybe it helped. Is it okay for me to take lessons with him?”

A terrible suspicion was growing in Bilbo’s mind, and he had to work to keep his voice steady. “What does he look like, Frodo, your new teacher?”

“Look like?” Frodo seemed puzzled, tilting his head and frowning up at the memorial candles. “I haven’t seen him. I just hear his voice. It’s a really nice voice, Bilbo, really deep!”

“I’m sure it is,” Bilbo managed, getting the words out without choking. He turned his own gaze blindly to the far wall, something pained and ugly and jealous coiling around his heart. So Th-

So _he_ would speak to this child, to Bilbo’s ward, without so much as a by-your-leave, but not to Bilbo himself-

Not even after so many years, and would he never be forgiven? He had only been trying to help, only wanted to save-

 _No,_ Bilbo told himself then, firmly. _No. It is done, it was done long ago, **he** made that more than clear. Just because **you** can’t let it go is no reason to feel such ill-will toward poor Frodo._

Frodo, who had committed no other crime than to be possessed of a very beautiful voice...one which might earn him a very steady and comfortable living one day if he had good training. And if it was _him_ offering to teach Frodo, then the lad would be getting the very best lessons he possibly could.

“Bilbo?” Frodo was peering up at him now, worried. “Is it okay?”

While the pain did not ease much, Bilbo was able to let go of the ugly thing making his stomach feel leaden and cold. He would not let his own past and his own mistakes deprive Frodo of the chance to be the best singer he could possibly be, or the chance to support himself well when Bilbo was no longer able to look after him.

 _This will be for the best,_ he decided.

“It’s fine, my lad,” he said softly then, determined to mean it, “that’s just fine. Only you must promise to work very hard for your teacher.”

“I will!” promised the boy with breathless excitement, blue eyes lit up, “I definitely will!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope the prologue has you intrigued! This fic is completed, so I'll be posting a chapter a week on Fridays. It is only sort-of beta read, so please feel free to point out any typos to me. 
> 
> (This is endgame Bagginshield and Frodo/Sam, in case anyone is wondering, but there are a certain amount of Thorin/Frodo feelings, due to the nature of the story.) 
> 
> Comments/kudos/etc. are much appreciated! :)


	2. Act One

Sam stopped in his tracks so quickly that the pony he was leading bumped into him, dumbstruck at the beautiful and _familiar_ voice filtering back from the main stage. 

“Mr. Frodo?” he whispered, turning towards the curtains to try and get a glimpse. “Could it really be Mr. Frodo?”

“Frodo Baggins? Of course it is! Where’ve you been all week?” piped up another hobbit to his left, dressed as one of the chorus.

“The lead tenor, Otho, walked out a few days ago and Frodo is taking his place as lead!” chipped in another chorus member, coming up on his right. “He’s just been in the chorus with us up until now, but he has a private tutor too and has gotten much better.”

“Oh,” Sam whispered, his heart clenching painfully again as he actually did catch a glimpse of Frodo up on stage, with his beautifully tailored costume and singing so magnificently. He was just as- as wonderful as Sam remembered from their childhood friendship so many years ago, playing through the gardens and the woods together, with Frodo making up songs as they went along and Sam joining in as best he could.

“Are you new, then?” asked the first hobbit, elbowing him to get his attention. “I’m Pippin, by the way, Pippin Took.”

“And I’m Merry Brandybuck,” the hobbit to his right introduced himself. 

Sam managed to tear his eyes away from Frodo, not wanting to be rude. “Sam Gamgee. I’m new, just started a couple of days ago, and it’s been such a rush with the show openin’ I scarcely had time to remember my own name!”

“Understandable,” Merry agreed, grinning shrewdly. 

“Samwise!” 

Sam turned quickly to find the formidable stage manager, Mr. Bilbo, passing by. “Yes, sir?”

“That pony will need to be around to the back soon, so don’t dawdle too long.”

“No, Mr. Bilbo, sir!” Sam swallowed, not having meant to be caught woolgathering at his first show. But the older hobbit smiled slightly to let him know it was all right, and hurried on. 

“We’ll find you after the show and get you caught up on the gossip, shall we?” Merry offered.

“If- If that’s all right, I’d be much obliged!” Sam said, and led the pony onward. The other two hobbits waved him off with easy smiles.

 _He probably doesn’t remember me,_ the hobbit reminded himself, trying to temper his excitement at seeing Frodo again, _I was just the gardener’s son, and I’m not much more than that now. What was it Mr. Bofur said? “Wrangler of flora and fauna”? And who would have known an opera would use so many real flowers and animals and such like!_ Unfortunately, there was no live Oliphaunt, even though this particular production was set in far south Harad. _But maybe I’ll be able to say a quick hello to Mr. Frodo sometime...surely he wouldn’t mind that._

He sent one last, wistful smile back in the direction of the stage. _He may not remember me, but I surely do remember him._

\--

Frodo came awake slowly in an unfamiliar bed to soft, tinkling music. 

Even with hours of sleep intervening, something in his soul still quivered with joy and longing. That _voice_ was all he could remember for a long, long moment, deep and yearning, pulling at something profound inside him that Frodo wasn’t honestly sure he could even explain....

Then everything else came back to him too, and he opened his eyes with a small gasp.

Carefully, he pulled himself out of the bed and rose. He remembered mist, and a lake, and-

Stepping out onto the ledge revealed that none of it had been a dream after all. The great arched cavern was supported by sturdy square columns, carved with intricate geometric designs and strange bearded figures. Clever light fixtures lit up the land and glittered in the water of the glassy lake below. Turning back towards the bed, he found the source of the tinkling music, a music box carved into the shape of an exquisitely detailed red dragon curled around a miniature treasure hoard.

If all of this was real, then so the rest of it had been, the long journey down from the Opera House through the maze of tunnels and carefully constructed passages...and the one who had led him here.

The Opera Ghost, the Phantom.

He was both as frightening as the tales told by the stagehands and chorus members, and as amazing and intense as Bilbo’s stories had always painted him. His eyes were blue and had burned with an intensity that had almost taken Frodo’s breath and voice away. The half of his face not covered by the mask was handsome, framed by long silver-streaked dark hair and short beard. Strong hands that had obviously built so much down here in the depths below the Opera House had beckoned Frodo ever further through his personal kingdom, and had coaxed such breathtaking music from the large harp that stood in pride of place to one side. Those same strong hands had caught and carried him when he fainted after the long night and the sight of the strange carving of a hobbit (of _Frodo_ ) decorating one of the long, covered walls.

Frodo swallowed. All along...all along, Frodo’s teacher had been none other than the Opera Ghost himself. 

He could not say, now, if he had guessed it before meeting the dwarf face to face. 

Frodo made his way down from the ledge outside the bedroom alcove. It was strange to think of either his elusive teacher or the Phantom of the Opera doing something as prosaic as sleeping...and certainly he was not sleeping now, seated instead at his organ and scribbling furiously at the sheets of music set there.

He was, however, much dressed-down from the night before, with no coat or gloves and a loosened cravat, his long hair pulled back into a low tail. 

Heart beating hard and butterflies fluttering fast in his stomach, the hobbit approached him carefully, earning himself only a glance and a brief, quick smile before the dwarf’s attention returned to the music in front of him. Unsure of exactly what he was doing or what he wanted, Frodo stepped closer, resting a hand carefully on the Phantom’s shoulder. The dwarf did pause then, leaning back and closing his eyes in apparent relief at Frodo’s gentle touch along the uncovered part of his brow, soothing away the lines of concentration that creased it.

All of that was gone the moment Frodo summoned the courage to pull away the mask.

“Damn you!” the dwarf cried, pushing him away even as Frodo stumbled back in shock and horror. “You little rat! Is this what you wanted to see? Curse you!”

The terrible scarring (as if half of his face had been burnt mostly away) was now covered by the dwarf’s broad hand, but Frodo had seen enough. He held himself still and quiet, wide-eyed as the Opera Ghost ranted and raved in anger (or fear...?)

“Can you even dare to look or bear to think of me?” he whispered at last, anger quieting down into pleading. “Frodo, dearest Frodo...fear can turn to love, can it not? And if any could learn to see past this, past my _monstrosity_ , it would be-” Some emotion Frodo couldn’t identify passed over his face too quickly to catch, and his voice hitched just briefly before he continued, “Surely it would be you? Oh, Frodo...”

The hobbit, getting carefully to his feet, said nothing. No words would come to him, and he wasn’t sure he could have spoken them aloud anyway, but he made himself step forward without hesitation, returning the mask to the dwarf’s outstretched hand. The Phantom replaced it on his face and rose, keeping his face turned away for a long moment before taking a deep breath and seeming to collect himself.

“Come, we must return. Undoubtedly those two fools who run my theater will be missing you.”

When he held out his hand again, Frodo took it.

\--

“‘Mystery after Gala Night,’” Master Farmun read from the missive on his desk, “‘Mystery of the Tenor’s Flight.’ Goodness, these people have quite the imaginations, don’t they?”

“Damn them all. Are they all going to walk out on us?” complained Master Alfrid, sneering at the sheet sent by their informers working out on the streets.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alfrid,” Farmun said, sitting back and taking another drink of his wine. “It’s all free publicity...and gossip is worth its weight in gold, as we well know.”

“But we barely have a _cast_...” Alfrid whined, trailing off as he saw the look on Farmun’s face.

“It seems you’ve got one too,” the larger man said with distaste, seeing the last note in Alfrid’s stack and waving his own with its unfamiliar and ominous raven seal. Alfrid hesitated, then opened the letter and read aloud: “Master Alfrid, last night went much better than would be supposed under new management. Naturally, Frodo enjoyed a great success, and his leading role was by far the best decision made regarding the Gala; we were hardly bereft when Master Otho left. The chorus was acceptable, and the dancers need work; I suggest you see to a new dancing instructor immediately. Try not to make the mistake of choosing yet another Elf.”

Able only to gape at this singular missive, Alfrid made no protest when Farmun shared his own: “Master Farmun, a brief reminder: my salary has not been paid. You may send it by return of post. Debtors are not appreciated in Dale, and I’m sure you would not want any hint of such a thing to affect your reputations here. I appreciate your prompt payment.”

The new owners of the Dale Opera House, lately of Esgaroth, stared at each other for a long, speechless moment. 

“Who would have the gall to send such a thing?” Master Farmun burst out then, outraged. “These are both signed ‘O.G.’...”

“Who the hell is he?” Alfrid sneered, but the unwelcome answer dawned on them both in the next moment.

“Opera Ghost!”

“What sort of spectre needs _money_?” Farmun wanted to know, fortifying himself with another draught of wine. 

“He’s clearly,” said Alfrid, heading to the side cupboard for a glass of his own, “quite insane!”

“No question there-”

The door burst open, and the new Master of Live Props rushed in.

“Where is he?” Sam Gamgee demanded, quite ferociously considering his usual demeanor.

“You mean Otho?” Alfrid asked automatically.

“I mean Mr. Frodo!” Gamgee replied heatedly. “Where is he?”

“How should we know?” Master Farmun wanted to know.

“You’re in charge around here, aren’t you?” the Halfling demanded. “He ain’t been home all night! And then after looking high and low for him, all I find is this note from you!”

“We didn’t send any notes,” Alfrid warned, sneering slightly. If they had, it certainly wouldn’t have been to a halfling stagehand. Some of those dancing girls, on the other hand...

“Who would it ‘ave come from, then, if not you?” Gamgee demanded, seemingly not to be cowed with the matter of Baggins’ supposed safety at stake. He thrust the letter towards them, and Farmun waved for Alfrid to fetch it for him. Alfrid did, grumbling under his breath. Why did he always have to be the one to get up and fetch things?

“‘Do not fear for Mr. Baggins,’” Farmun read, frowning, “‘the Spirit of Music has him under a wing. Do not attempt to ever see him again.’”

“You see? If you didn’t write that, then who did?”

The door burst open for the second time to admit Otho Sackville-Baggins and hangers-on, led by his wife Lobelia, who brandished (Alfrid rolled his eyes) _yet another_ of the damned notes. 

“ _Where is he?_ ” Lobelia demanded, Otho following just behind with a tremendous scowl on his face. 

“Ah, welcome back,” Farmun said smoothly, actually rising from his chair. “Wine?”

“Your new _stagehand_ , where is he?” Lobelia snarled. “Where is the hobbit who sent this disgusting letter? You!” She pointed at Gamgee, who gaped at her in confusion. Alfrid narrowed his eyes, trying to decide if it was faked or not. The halfling seemed honest enough, but it was the honest-seeming ones you had to watch out for.

“What are you talking about? Why would I have been sending notes to the leading tenor?” 

“Why indeed?” asked Otho, sneering at Gamgee.

“You dare to tell us that this isn’t the letter you sent?” Lobelia shrilled, disbelieving.

“And just what am I supposed to have written?” Gamgee demanded, still standing his ground. Lobelia slapped it into his hand scornfully and drew back to her husband’s side.

“‘Your days at the Dale Opera House are numbered. Frodo Baggins will be singing in your place tonight. Your fate, should you attempt to take his place, will not be a kind one.’”

Both managers gaped for a moment too long, giving Lobelia time to speak up again.

“It’s quite obvious who sent this: this stagehand that the little upstart has taken for a lover!”

Gamgee’s face darkened into a scowl, strangely disturbing compared to the halfling’s normally cheerful expression. “Now _you see here_ , Lobelia Sackville-Baggins! You keep a civil tongue in your head when speaking of Mr. Frodo! I certainly didn’t write any nasty letters to no one, least of all you!”

Lobelia and Otho, who were rapidly going red with anger at being scolded by a mere stagehand (Alfrid couldn’t blame them; the temerity of the halfling!), were fortunately cut off when Farmun quickly downed the rest of his wine and then stepped out from behind the desk.

“There have been far too many of these notes for my taste,” he declared, and Alfrid nodded in emphatic agreement. “And far too many of them have been about the young Mr. Baggins. Why, we’ve hardly heard any other names since we came but his-”

“Frodo Baggins has returned.”

They all turned to see Bilbo Baggins standing calmly in the doorway. Alfrid immediately disliked the careful blankness of his face, and indeed had disliked the little stage manager since they had arrived. The older Baggins didn’t give so much as an inch within his own domain, and did not seem very impressed with either of his new masters.

“Well, I trust he’s had his romp and gotten it out of his system,” Alfrid sneered. 

“Can I see him, Mr. Bilbo, please?” Gamgee gasped, worry overcoming his previous anger.

Something flickered over Baggins’ face too quickly to catch, but his eyes were fixed on Alfrid and his voice was colder when he next spoke. “No. He is in need of rest and to be alone for a time. He is unharmed, Samwise, I promise. He will see you later.”

Gamgee sagged with both relief and disappointment. Otho and his wife looked about ready to boil over again.

Alfrid and Farmun glanced at each other. Neither had missed the note in Baggins’ hand, and neither of them wanted to deal with it. Farmun shook his head sharply when the halfling started to hold it up, and turned away.

Baggins narrowed his eyes at Farmun, then raised a questioning eyebrow at Alfrid. Alfrid scoffed and waved the halfling away. He’d had quite enough of that nonsense for a lifetime! 

The halfling stage manager shrugged, then turned and went back out the door. Alfrid had the odd and unpleasant sensation that the shrug was a strongly implied “on your head be it.”

He ignored the feeling, and joined Farmun in trying to lure their lead tenor back to work.

\--

Bilbo crept silently up the stairs as the sound of Frodo and Sam’s voices faded below him. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected...

Coming to the still-open doorway leading onto the Opera House’s roof, he sank down onto the top step, holding his breath, not quite daring to actually look out in case-

“ _You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!_ ”

Even now, even in anger, even focused so completely on another...that deep voice did things to Bilbo’s soul that he dared not think on save in the darkest hours of the night.

The memory of Frodo and Sam’s voices twined in song came back to him, and he couldn’t stop himself from singing softly, just barely above a breath, “ _Let me be your freedom, let daylight dry your tears. I’m here, with you, beside you, to guard you and to guide you.._.”

But no voice answered him, and Bilbo curled in on himself, his hand pressed over his heart as though that would help to stop the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may now envision Thorin singing "Music of the Night." You're welcome.
> 
> Obviously, lyrics and some dialogue were either taken straight or borrowed with slight alterations from the original musical. 
> 
> Here is chapter 2! I hope everyone is still enjoying it! I've done the 'casting' for this to suit the Hobbit characters moreso than Phantom, and hopefully no one is too out of character. >.> The Master of Laketown and Alfrid seemed like an obvious choice for the M. Firmin and M. Andre cast, so I went with that, and made up a name for the Master since he doesn't have one that I know of? (Someone feel free to correct me if I'm wrong!)
> 
> Sort of beta'd, but feel free to point out any mistakes that I have missed!
> 
> :)


	3. Entre'acte

In the quiet time that followed, Bilbo held out for three months.

They were a long three months, and on some nights it took all of his will-power not to slip out of his rooms once the candle was blown out, not to pad silently down familiar hallways, not to slide through the small, hidden entrance that he knew about, not to creep down through long, dark stone corridors...

On the night he realized that it had, in fact, been three months, his will broke and he did all of those things.

He tried to reassure himself that three months was longer than he had ever managed before. In the greater scheme of things, that was not really very reassuring at all.

He crept down through long, cold stone corridors, their lamps unlit, for it was not as though Tho- it was not as though _he_ encouraged anyone to make their way down here. _He_ was the only one who was familiar enough with the masterfully worked passages to make his way through them alone and unaided...

The only one except Bilbo, who had (up to a point) made himself as familiar with this world below the Opera House as he was with the theater itself. There were lines that even he did not cross, however, knowing that he was unwelcome and not wishing to intrude on _his_ space, just needing to know that the dwarf was safe.

He went down as far as he dared, just close enough to barely make out the music of voice and organ that echoed up through the stone passages.

Normally, this was enough, and he could sit for hours listening to the other compose, not minding at all the frequent stops and starts, the repeated passages and minute changes as the dwarf fine-tuned his work. On this particular night, though, this familiar process seemed frustrated, halting, almost tortured at times, as though the music would not come.

Bilbo could almost sense _his_ aggravation, even with the distance between them.

It was the same the next night, and again the night after that.

On the fourth night, unable to bear the increasingly frantic attempts at composition from below, the hobbit broke his own self-imposed rule and crossed the invisible line in the corridor, creeping further and further down. He had been this far only once before, just after- after everything, when he had desperately needed to be sure that the dwarf was recovered and-

And he had not dared to go this far down again. Until now.

Softly, carefully, as silently as he knew how, Bilbo went down, and down, until he came to a doorway in the rock passage, which he knew would look out over the lake and the cavern below where he had made his home for all these long years. He didn’t dare go through the door, but settled himself next to it, with his back up against the stone and his knees pulled up to his chest, staring down at the mussed curls covering the tops of his feet.

The music stopped.

Bilbo swallowed, and held his breath.

Long moments of silence ticked by, and the hobbit wondered what _he_ would do. Would he make it clear that Bilbo was not welcome, would he try to scare him away, would he-

Tentatively, the music began again. At first, it was stilted, frustrated as before, hovering around the edges of being right. Then, it began to improve, phrases seeming to come more easily to the composer, melodies flowing more smoothly, progress at last being made again. 

The hobbit breathed out a silent sigh of relief, and settled in to wait.

If this was all the more that he could do for Tho- for the dwarf, to sit silent and unseen but near enough for his presence to be a help as it had once been so long ago, then...

 _Then so be it,_ he thought, and felt the despair around his heart creep just a little bit closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update this time because I'm heading off to my sister's for a weekend-long Tolkien marathon! :D
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it, next chapter will go up in a week. :)


	4. Act Two

He looked magnificent.

Bilbo was frozen in place on the main staircase of the Opera House, staring up at the imposing figure in red that stood above them all. The music and dancing fell away into terrified silence as the attendees at the Masquerade realized that the Opera Ghost had decided to grace them with his presence.

“Have you missed me?” the dwarf asked, his low, amused voice shivering down Bilbo’s spine. “Did you think that I had left for good? No matter. I have written you an opera!”

The score was tossed at the feet of Masters Farmun and Alfrid, and _he_ continued down the stairs, mocking Otho and Lobelia as well as the owners. As if that alone hadn’t been enough to make Bilbo’s knees weak, the brief, searing glance of blue eyes meeting his from behind the elaborate dragon mask was certainly sufficient to finish the job.

But it was only a passing breath, and then the dwarf tore his gaze away and was looking to another-

To Frodo, standing wide-eyed at the bottom of the stairs and seeming torn between fear and adoration.

Bilbo, heart hammering and stomach twisting sickly, closed his eyes and had to look away. He was grateful for the chaos following the Phantom’s retreat and Sam’s reckless attempt to follow him, for rescuing the lad gave him something else to concentrate on, something else to _do_. 

Torn between fear for Frodo, longing, and jealousy, the hobbit needed every precious moment of distraction that he could get.

\--

“You’ll do as we say!” Master Farmun thundered at Frodo, and not even Sam’s outrage was enough to quiet him. “This might be our only chance to catch this trouble-making dwarf, and I’ll not have it ruined just because you’ve gotten squeamish about him. You were happy enough to let him tumble you before.”

Frodo swallowed down nausea and shook his head mutely, unable to find any more words. He had pleaded his case already, but even with Sam and much of the backstage crew on his side, their words meant little to the Opera House’s owners now that they saw him as bait to catch the Phantom with. As if he wasn’t likely listening in on them right at this moment, hearing all of their plans and making his own accordingly....

The rest of the crowd in the room had descended into a shouting match with everyone trying to make themselves heard, and Frodo couldn’t stand the noise anymore. He left the room, with Sam close on his heels.

“I’m sorry, Frodo,” the other hobbit said softly, pulling him aside, “but they’ll not listen to the likes of me. I’m just a gardener, after all.”

Frodo smiled, sad and fond all at once. “You’re much more than that, Sam, at least to me. You know that.”

“I do,” Sam said, and smiled his own shy, joyful smile at the thought of the promises they had made each other. It was a delight to watch, and eased a little bit of Frodo’s fear...but not enough.

The door opened again and Bilbo slipped out of the room as well, his face carefully blank as it always was when the Phantom was brought up-

Frodo didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him before.

“Bilbo!” he called, stepping out of the shadows as the older hobbit passed them both without seeing them. “Bilbo, please-”

His uncle froze, before turning to them with that same blank-faced look. “I don’t know more than anyone else,” he said stiffly, but broke off at the sight of Frodo and Sam’s faces. 

“That’s not true, Mr. Bilbo,” Sam put in apologetically, “and we all know it. Please, can’t you help us? Can’t you help _Frodo_?”

Bilbo, clearly struggling with something, turned his face away to hide whatever expression he could no longer conceal by will alone.

“Very well,” he whispered after a long moment. “Come with me.”

The older hobbit puttered once they reached his room, fussing with the lamps and clearly delaying the conversation. Frodo sensed that Bilbo needed time to put his thoughts in order, but was not intending to try and avoid talking to them altogether.

“You will both have heard stories of the dragon attack,” he began once they were all finally sitting down. The younger hobbits both nodded. Although the attack was long past, the story was still told frequently, about how Lord Girion of Dale had followed the dragon into the Mountain with his last Black Arrow and slain the beast with the help of the Dwarves of Erebor. “Before my time, of course, but many were injured and misplaced by the attack, and there was chaos in the aftermath. Those who feed on the misfortune of others unfortunately thrive in such times.”

Bilbo took a slow breath, frowning at his clasped hands before slowly beginning the main part of his tale. “I do not know who he was before, only that half of his face had been badly burned in the dragon’s attack on Erebor. He was caught by slave traders, and sold into one of the traveling freak shows that you will see on occasion. They left Dale and wandered Middle Earth for many years, I believe, before returning to the city here. I was still young myself then, and had only recently joined the Opera. Some of the others wanted to see the show, and I got dragged along.

“I remember how they laughed.” Bilbo’s voice dropped, old rage not fully concealed under the softness. “Everyone laughed to see the ‘mutilated dwarf,’ and they jeered and threw things into the cage at him. It made me sick. It still makes me sick, to think on it now.”

Frodo swallowed down an ill feeling of his own, imagining it all too clearly. He clutched Sam’s hand a little tighter, and was glad when Sam squeezed comfortingly back.

“But I think that they had made a mistake in returning to Dale with him,” Bilbo continued his story. “I think that he knew where he was, and realized that he was close to home. I was the last one out of the tent that day...and so I was the only one to see him attack his captor, breaking the chains that held him and using them to strangle the man.” The hobbit’s voice and gaze went distant again with remembered anger. “I would have helped him, I think, if I’d been able. As it was...” 

Bilbo sighed, and his expression eased into something sadder. “As it was, I was only able to help him escape afterwards, and to avoid the pursuit which followed.”

“He was weak, ill from his long mistreatment and the terrible burns which never had been treated properly to begin with. I knew of a place where he could hide, near the Opera, and I brought him food and clothes and medicine, sneaking out at night to spend what hours I could with him. We- We talked a lot, for there was little else to do as he recovered his strength, and though he would not speak of his own past, he was happy to hear about life in Dale and whatever news I had of the Mountain. I spoke of the Opera, and he told me of his love of music, and that he hoped to attend one day. He was kind enough to give me tales of the larger world, though they must have been tainted by his own memories   
of being trapped by that horrible band of Men. He was intelligent, and well-spoken, and made me laugh, and I was even able to make him laugh, a time or two, and he had the most beautiful smile...”

Frodo’s heart ached, as he suddenly realized the direction his uncle’s story was going. Bilbo looked up at them with a hesitant smile, his hands spreading in a helpless gesture, trying to encompass all that he had felt. 

“We never spoke of it directly, but I believe that he meant to go back to the Mountain once he was strong enough. Before he was well, though, the mob from the traveling show found him. I don’t know how, and I worried for many years that they had somehow tracked _me_ as I went to see him. But I later learned that there was a price on his head, for killing the Man who was his keeper, and I think others had been searching for him in hopes of claiming the reward.

“Fortunately, their desire for revenge made them stupid, and rather than just kill him outright and be done with it, they tried to set his face on fire again.” Bilbo shuddered at whatever memory lingered in his mind, and Frodo felt a thread of nausea curl through his stomach again, remembering what lingered behind the mask that the Phantom wore. “They partially succeeded, but fortunately I arrived in time to stop them and to get him away. The damage had been done, though, and was beyond my limited healing skills, and so I-” The older hobbit swallowed. “I brought him to a healer. Of course, in doing so I exposed him to the authorities and he was put into custody for questioning about the death at the traveling show. In his pain and fever, I do not think that he fully understood that I was trying to save him, and knew only that I had betrayed him to the authorities. He screamed and cursed at me as they took him away, and I could only let them do it, for he would have died without proper care and I- I couldn’t let that happen.”

Bilbo’s expression when he looked up at them again was pleading, begging for understanding. “He was- He meant too much to me by then, you see, and I don’t know how he felt, but the thought of him dying....” He shook his head sharply, eyes closing in pain. “I just couldn’t.”

“How did he come to be in the Opera House, then?” Frodo questioned softly when Bilbo did not speak again.

“Oh,” his uncle said, and nodded. “Well, I...helped him to escape the city jail, once he was healed enough to move safely. He followed, but refused to speak to me. The caverns below the Opera House seemed like the best place for him to stay for a time while he finished healing. I showed him the way, he spoke once to say that he never wanted to see my face again...and that was that. He made himself a home there, as you have seen.”

“But why did he never go back to the Mountain, Mr. Bilbo?” Sam asked then.

“I don’t know,” Bilbo admitted quietly. “I think that the second attack, and the accusations against him for killing to escape his enslavement, may have broken his spirit past the point of feeling as though he could go home. Or perhaps that was never his intention to begin with – as I said, we did not speak of it directly. Instead, he took advantage of the space and resources here to develop his talents. He is an architect of great skill, as well as a composer, a master harpist in his own right, and a magician and a smith...truly, a genius.”

“I think that genius might have since turned to madness,” Sam said, gently, and pain flashed across Bilbo’s face as he looked away.

Frodo didn’t know what he was feeling. Pity and sympathy and horror and fear and love and a thousand things between. The Phantom had given him so much, taught him so much...but was now trying to ensnare Frodo as surely as he had once been ensnared, and Frodo did not think he could forgive him that, nor the attacks against Sam and the rest of the cast and crew. That no one had actually died yet seemed to be based on whatever scraps of goodness the dwarf had left in his soul...but those were dwindling fast.

“I have done you a great wrong, Frodo,” Bilbo said softly, interrupting his spinning thoughts, “and I am sorry for it. I am sorry that this has fallen on you now. In the beginning, I- Well, I knew that he would teach you well, none better, and I thought that letting you learn to make the most of your voice and talents was the best thing I could do for you...but I should never have let it go this far. I should never have let my own feelings – my own fear and jealousy – get in the way of keeping you safe. Even if you cannot forgive me for it, know that I do care for you, my lad, for both of you, and that I am sorry.”

“It must have been hard,” Frodo realized, understanding now how painful the Phantom’s interest in himself must have been for Bilbo, who obviously still loved the dwarf deeply in spite of everything. 

Could Frodo blame him for that? He might have loved the Phantom himself, if the circumstances had been different.

“That’s no excuse-”

“I forgive you, Uncle,” Frodo said softly, waiting steadily until Bilbo returned his gaze, and smiling wryly when the older hobbit’s eyes shimmered with tears. “And I will forgive you all the more if you’ll help us now. You know a great deal more about him and about what he has built down below than you’ve ever let on, right?”

“Surely with your help, Mr. Bilbo,” Sam put in then, seeing Bilbo hesitate, “we can make sure it comes out all right for everyone?”

Bilbo swallowed. “He will not want to see me...”

“I think,” Frodo said carefully, thinking back to everything he had seen during the one night he had spent down in the Phantom’s lair, “that perhaps he misses you more than you know. He has a- a strange shrine down there, with a very detailed carving on the wall of- well, I had thought it was of me when I first saw it, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve thought about it a lot since then, and I think that maybe it was actually meant to be you. Have you truly had no other signs that he has forgiven you?”

The older hobbit was frowning, but it was a thoughtful frown. “It is- It is possible that he might at least be willing to speak to me. But it is you that he lo-”

“I think that he loves the idea of a hobbit who admires him and who has not betrayed him,” Frodo interrupted, still thinking quickly, “more than he feels any real love for me.” The Phantom’s intentions were hard to pin down, even now. There had definitely been elements of seduction and romance in his interactions with Frodo...but only to the point of bringing Frodo to him and keeping him within that orbit. That the Phantom was interested in having Frodo share his bed in a carnal way had never come up.

This whole story seemed to become more convoluted by the day, and little of it made sense to Frodo, now that he was stepping back and trying to look at it with some mental distance. His own feelings for the Phantom were still too complex to untangle, but he was nevertheless certain that he wanted to be with Sam and no other, and that was the only thing that he really needed to be sure of right now.

“Will you help us, Uncle Bilbo? Please?”

Bilbo, seemingly having come to his own conclusions, sighed and sat back in his chair. He seemed both relieved and resigned, but he nodded without hesitation. “Yes, my lad, I most certainly will.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bilbo!” Sam grinned, and Frodo leaned into him, grateful when Sam’s strong arm came around his shoulders. Bilbo’s smile softened and became fond as he looked at the two of them. 

“It is only what I should have done from the beginning. Now, since the plans of our dear managers are laughable at best and undoubtedly already known to our friendly Opera Ghost, let’s come up with something better, shall we?”

\--

The pain and betrayal in the Phantom’s face when Frodo removed his mask in front of the entire Opera House was something that he hoped to never see again for as long as he lived. 

The pain of it cut deep into his own heart, even against the glad relief that Bilbo’s plan clearly remained unknown to the Phantom. He had known of everything Masters Farmun and Alfrid planned, of course, but that he did not know of this meant that they might still have a chance.

When the Opera Ghost dropped them through the stage and down into his cavernous kingdom, Frodo held on and prayed that it wouldn’t take long for Bilbo and Sam to follow.

\--

Sam got there first.

“Let him go!” his love pleaded through the bars of the gate. “Please, let him go! Can’t you see you’re hurting him?”

“Your lover makes a passionate plea,” the Phantom sneered at Frodo.

“Sam, it’s useless-”

“I love him!” Sam insisted. “Does that mean nothing to you? I love him! Show a little compassion-”

“The world showed no compassion to me!” The Phantom’s furious snarl silenced them both for a second, and he regained his composure quickly. “But please, Master Gamgee, do come in.”

The gate rose slowly and Sam hurried inside, wading through the chest-high water as best he could. The Phantom started down into the water himself, leaving Frodo back on the shore. Behind Sam, the gate began to lower again.

“Welcome, then, to my kingdom. Did you think that I would harm him?” He waded closer to Sam, who set his face in a determined expression and came on. “Why should I make Frodo pay for the sins which are _yours_?” 

In a movement too quick to follow, the Phantom had thrown his lasso up out of the water, catching Sam unawares and binding him swiftly to the gate.

“No!” Frodo cried, desperately starting into the water himself as the Phantom’s noose tightened around Sam’s neck. None of this was part of the plan. Where was Bilbo?

“Now watch your back! Now raise your hand to the level of your eyes!” the Opera Ghost taunted. “There is nothing that can save you now,” he jerked the rope cruelly, “except perhaps Frodo.”

Frodo froze, ignoring Sam’s frantic headshakes and choked pleas for him to run. He refused to leave Sam now. 

“Start a new life with me,” the Phantom said harshly, turning back toward Frodo. “If you love him so, then buy his freedom with it, and remain with me. If you do, then I will let him go. If not, I will kill him now.” All of the pain and anger and betrayal was back on his face, and Frodo felt helpless against it, helpless when presented with two such terrifying options. “ _This_ is your choice. _This_ is the point of no return-”

“No, Thorin.”

Frodo almost sagged to his knees in relief.

The Phantom’s (Thorin’s?) head whipped frantically to the side at the sound of Bilbo’s voice, hiding the ruined half of his face from the older hobbit, as if he could not bear for Bilbo to see it. His jaw worked silently, but aside from his harsh breaths, no sound came from him. His blue eyes stared wildly out into the cavern, emotions flashing too quickly over his face for Frodo to follow.

From the high ledge where he had appeared, Bilbo began to slowly work his way down and around the cavern. 

“Let Sam go, Thorin, please. He and Frodo don’t need to be a part of this.” Frodo risked a quick glance at his uncle. Bilbo’s calm was mostly a front, if the look in his eyes was any indication, but it was a good front. 

The dwarf still had not turned his head. He seemed to flinch away a little at the request, and the rope did slacken in his hands, just enough that Sam was no longer choking for breath. Frodo nearly darted forward to seize it entirely from him, but was too afraid to disturb this fragile stalemate.

“Why are you here?” 

The dwarf’s – Thorin’s – first words since Bilbo’s arrival were harsh, but there was a desperate, pleading undertone to them that Frodo knew he was not imagining. 

“I’m here for you, Thorin,” Bilbo said, closer now. He glanced at the carved mural on the way past, and his mask of calm slipped briefly but was back again the next moment as he worked his way past the great organ and down to where Frodo was standing. “I’m here because this has gone on long enough, and because I miss you.” 

Thorin flinched again, and the rope slackened more, only to tighten again as something ugly and pained crossed his features. “Don’t _lie_ to me. You _betrayed me_ -”

“I was trying to save your life!” Bilbo shouted, his hands curling into fists. “I couldn’t help you, and you were dying, and I had to do something-”

“So you betrayed me to those who hunted me for daring to free myself from slavery, and for what? For me to live a cursed life alone down here?”

“That,” said Bilbo, his voice terribly calm once more, “was never my intention. Look at me, Thorin.”

The dwarf jerked his head away again, his unruly long hair further hiding the ruined half of his face. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, steady and coaxing, “look at me.”

Still, the dwarf would not turn, and Frodo could no longer see enough of his face to know what he might be thinking. He and Sam both remained silent and still, scarcely daring to breathe lest they interrupt whatever was happening here.

“ _Let me be your shelter, let me be your light. You’re safe, no-one will find you,_ ” Bilbo’s clear tenor, a little rusty but true, was a shock to everyone in the cavern. “ _Your fears are far behind you..._ ”

Even through the almost-unpleasant jolt of hearing Sam’s song for him from so many months ago on his uncle’s lips, Frodo still did not move, and for a long, aching moment there was utter silence.

Then, just as Bilbo’s face was beginning to crumble into despair, a deep, beautiful bass voice took up the next words. 

“ _All I want is freedom, a world with no more night...and you, always beside me, to hold me and to hide me..._ ” Slowly, Thorin let the rope slide free of his hands, and began to turn hesitantly toward where Bilbo stood at the edge of the lake, joy beginning to light the older hobbit’s face. 

“ _Then say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime,_ ” Bilbo pleaded, “ _let me lead you from your solitude... Say you need me with you here, beside you...anywhere you go, let me go too..._ ” 

Stunned by the open love and joy on Bilbo’s face, Thorin began to wade back toward the shore, his movements halting and unsure, but growing in confidence with his voice. “ _Say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime...say the word and I will follow you..._ ” 

Bilbo held out his hand to the dwarf as he neared, and they sang on together, “ _Share each day with me, each night, each morning..._ ”

“Say you love me,” Thorin pleaded as he took Bilbo’s hand, falling to his knees at the hobbit’s feet.

“You know I do,” Bilbo whispered, caressing Thorin’s face, both sides, gently with his other hand.

“ _Love me,_ ” they murmured together as Bilbo leaned down, “ _that’s all I ask of you..._ ” 

Frodo came back to himself as they kissed, and could finally tear his eyes away. Immediately, he turned and continued across the lake to help Sam free from the ropes, though his intended had already managed to work his way free from a couple of the knots. Pulling the hated noose over Sam’s head and tossing it away, Frodo kissed him as soon as Sam was free, and slumped gratefully into the other hobbit’s strong embrace. 

When they stopped, they looked back to find Bilbo and Thorin still wrapped up in each other on the shore, barely parting from their kisses long enough to exchange low words that the two younger hobbits couldn’t make out. 

A distant echo of voices pulled Frodo’s attention away, though, and he strained to hear.

“ _Track down this monster,_ ” came the faint chant of a mob, “ _he must be found!_ ”

“You must go,” Thorin said then, pulling away from Bilbo as the sounds reached him as well. “You must leave me-”

“Frodo, Sam, take the boat and go,” Bilbo said calmly, refusing to let go of the dwarf’s hands. “If they take the left-hand passage out beyond the gate, that will lead them away from the crowd, won’t it?”

Thorin stared at Bilbo, but nodded slowly. “Bilbo...”

“If you think that I am leaving you _now_ ,” the older hobbit said pointedly, “or _ever again_ , then I advise you to reconsider.”

“It’s probably best to listen to him,” Frodo offered, hesitantly.

“Mr. Bilbo generally knows what’s best,” Sam chipped in, obviously still disgruntled over his near-strangling, but still willing to encourage whatever was happening between Thorin and Bilbo.

Thorin turned and blinked at them, as though he had largely forgotten they were there. Frodo met his gaze determinedly, and the dwarf’s eyes softened slightly as they looked at him. 

“Frodo, I-” he stopped, voice rough, obviously not knowing what words would be right, after everything that had passed between them.

_I admire you. I did love you, in a way. I will miss you. I will miss your music. I’m sorry for hurting you._

Frodo felt rather all of those things himself, so he let the wry smile curl his mouth, and nodded. Then he turned back to Sam, who had (with some trepidation) gotten the boat ready and was waiting for him. Looking at his intended, Frodo felt his smile bloom into a full, joyful grin, which Sam returned easily. Beside them, the gate began to rise so that they could slip away before the mob from the theater above arrived.

Looking back, Frodo hesitated. “Will you be all right?” he asked Bilbo.

His uncle nodded. “I will. Keep each other safe and happy, my lads.”

“We will, Mr. Bilbo,” Sam promised, and Bilbo shooed them off, smiling as he leaned back into Thorin’s embrace where the dwarf had wrapped himself around the shorter hobbit.

“You keep each other safe and happy too!” Frodo called, and they both waved. He turned away to take up another pole to help Sam navigate the tricky water-filled corridors.

He looked back just once more, right before a bend would take them out of sight of the main cavern.

Bilbo and Thorin were both already gone.

Feeling a little melancholy at the fact that he would probably never see either his uncle or his teacher ever again, Frodo took a deep breath and set himself to looking ahead. 

After all, he had a long, happy life with Sam to look forward to, and hopefully (in spite of everything) a successful career as well.

“ _Say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime,_ ” he sang softly, and could sense Sam’s enormous grin even though they both kept their eyes on the route ahead.

“ _Say the word and I will follow you,_ ” Sam continued, in his rough but pleasant voice.

They slipped away through the kingdom beneath the Opera House, singing softly together and looking ahead to brighter days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (We did our Tolkien marathon and it was amazing: all filmed versions of The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings in 50 hours. I feel like it's been much longer than a week since I last posted, but it was totally worth it.)
> 
> Anyway, here is Act Two! As usual, lyrics and some dialogue were either taken straight or borrowed with slight alterations from the original musical. 
> 
> It's probably clear by now, but part of this was my exploring a dynamic that at least gets hinted at in the play (and shown a bit more clearly in the movie), namely, Madame Giry's feelings for the Phantom. They of course go completely unacknowledged by him in the original story...but it has always intrigued me as a potential alternate version of the story. So. I hope that isn't too sacrilegious to PotO fans. >.> Hopefully this covers everything satisfactorily, and you like the ending! 
> 
> Short epilogue next week, and then something new! Comments/kudos are much appreciated. :)


	5. Postlude

Many years later – nearly ten, in fact – a strange letter arrived in the mailbox at Bag End, written on a thick, rich parchment bearing many travel stains. It was addressed simply, in a familiar hand, to Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee of Bag End.

Opening it as he wandered back up the front steps, Frodo pulled out the letter and began to read. 

_My Dear Frodo and Sam,_

_I hope that you both are well. I do not know if you will be in Dale, Rivendell or the Shire when this arrives, but I thought it best to post it to Bag End, as I am sure you have someone bringing in the mail while you are away._

_While I can only speak of so much in a letter, I wanted to let you know that Thorin and I are both doing well. We traveled for several years, and have now settled far out in the East, where the cultures of both Men and Dwarves are quite unfamiliar to both of us. Unfamiliar, but not to say uninteresting! It is a good place for us, at least for the time being, and we are both happy here._

_Perhaps one day, we will make our way back West again (though of course not to Dale)._

_Until then, letters will have to suffice. I believe that correspondence from the Shire should reach me here. If this letter has in fact reached you, then a caravan headed east from the Iron Hills is probably your best chance, since a returning caravan brought this missive west for a small sum at my request._

_Be well, both of you. Let me know how things are in the West, and I hope that you are keeping up Bag End well. I would appreciate news of the latest happenings in the theater as well, since that sort of thing does not always make it east with the caravans._

_~~Your uncle,~~ _

_~~Bilbo~~ _

_Your uncles,_

_Bilbo & Thorin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of an epilogue to wrap things up! Thanks very much to anyone who has read/kudo'd/commented! I hope you enjoyed it. :)


End file.
